Miguel Zup had always dreamed of becoming a knight—not just any protector, but the one who would stand above all, defending the universe while guiding it as its ruler. In his eyes, a knight wasn't simply strong; they were the ultimate force—physically powerful, mentally unbreakable. The knight carried the burden of saving entire realities from collapse, standing alone against threats born from the cracks between universes. When multiversal energy started to fade and worlds began to collide like unstable stars, only a knight had the strength to stop the destruction. In a world where survival itself had become the highest truth, it was the knight who ensured it—at any cost.
One quiet evening, Zup was at home, slouched on the sofa with the TV humming in the background. He wiped his sweaty forehead with a towel—his post-workout routine was done. This was his moment to breathe, to let his muscles relax after a day of training and work. He lived a double life: by day, a skilled photographer running a modest studio in town; by heart, a man chasing the calling to be a hero. Photography paid the bills and brought him joy, but his heart had always belonged to the dream of knighthood. That, he believed, was his true destiny.
The walls of his home whispered his story. Framed photographs covered them—on the left, animals caught in perfect stillness; on the right, breathtaking images of nature. But above them all hung one photo that mattered more than the rest: his wife and son, smiling, frozen in a moment of happiness. That image grounded him. It reminded him what he was fighting for—who he was doing all this for.
Bored, he flipped through TV channels, barely stopping on anything. Every show felt lifeless, every movie forgettable. Frustrated, he shut it off and headed to his bedroom. With his wife away at her parents' house and his son gone too, the silence was louder than usual. He stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do next. After a pause, he decided to take a shower, hoping the water would clear his head.
As the cool water washed over him, the tension in his body melted. He stayed there for a while, letting it soothe him. When he stepped out, he changed into something light and soft—loose clothes that hugged his skin just enough to bring comfort. Feeling refreshed, he returned to the living room, grabbed the remote again, and tried once more to find something to watch.
But nothing worked. Nothing clicked. The empty house made it worse. If his son had been there, they would've played a game or done something silly together. Without him, the house felt hollow. Zup was no introvert—he thrived in crowds, loved the buzz of festivals, the thrill of conversations, the joy of sharing a meal with friends. But now he sat in the quiet, a stranger in his own space.
As the television droned on, Zup's thoughts drifted. He thought about his family—days at the park, laughter around the table, bedtime stories told with wide eyes. Those memories brought a smile to his face. He stood up and wandered the house, looking for something—anything—to break the stillness. He noticed toys scattered in the corners, remnants of his son's playtime. Nothing stirred his interest.
And then, as if by fate, he noticed something poking out from under the bed.
He bent down, and there it was—his PlayStation 4, still in its box, a thin layer of dust coating it. "How could I forget this?" he muttered, almost laughing. He wiped it clean, popped open the box, and took out his games. Nostalgia hit him like a wave. With a grin, he plugged it in and dove into the world of gaming. Hours passed in a blur. He played and played until the real world faded and exhaustion finally claimed him.
The next morning came too soon. Zup opened his eyes reluctantly. The late-night gaming had left him drained, his head heavy, his eyelids sluggish. He stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling. The sun had already climbed high when he finally pulled himself out of bed. Still groggy, he stepped outside for some fresh air.
As he opened the door to his small garden, something caught his eye.
A letter.
Lying neatly on the doorstep, it bore an emblem he knew well. His heart skipped. He bent down, picked it up, and read the envelope's subject line. His eyes widened.
"Wow…" he whispered, nearly breathless.
The letter was from the Betasphere—the organization in charge of selecting future knights. It was real. He had passed the preliminary test.
The joy was immediate and overwhelming. It filled his chest and spread to his fingertips. He laughed, the sound loud in the quiet air. For a moment, he felt like dancing. This was it. A new chapter. A dream closer to reality.
He couldn't wait to tell his wife. Without thinking twice, he rushed back inside. In ten minutes, he had taken another shower and dressed again. He didn't feel like driving—too tired. Public transport would do. A bus would get him to town in about thirty minutes.
He left the house in a hurry and made his way to the bus stop. When he got there, it was already crowded—people shifting on their feet, glancing at their watches. Zup sighed. He wasn't going to get a seat. It would be a standing ride. But it was only twenty minutes—not so bad. The area buzzed with chatter, with life. Zup welcomed it. He breathed in the air, noticing how green everything looked, how alive it all felt. Even here, in the rush and noise, nature peeked through.
In the distance, the groaning of the old bus reached his ears. It sounded like an old friend complaining but still showing up. As it neared, the crowd pushed forward, eager to board. Zup didn't rush. He waited. He had something the others didn't—peace. He stepped onto the bus last, just as the horn blared.
And with that, the journey began.